


Purged and Purified

by AllHailLange



Category: American Horror Story
Genre: Abandonment, Abuse, Alternate Universe, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Asylum, Drama & Romance, Drug Addiction, Fiona Goode - Freeform, Horror, Lots of Sex, Multi, Murder House, Reader-Interactive, So much confusion, Witches, american horror story - Freeform, coven - Freeform, freakshow - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-05-13 00:09:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14738391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllHailLange/pseuds/AllHailLange
Summary: "Fire purges and purifies, scatters our enemies to the wind. What blows away need not be explained." -Fiona Goode(Reader POV) Your life is a connection of the first four seasons. You're kept at the asylum until a chance opportunity transforms your life and gives you a chance to discover something about yourself you were raised to keep hidden.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic ever so bear with me! Do feel free to comment, give suggestions on what you would like in the story, and maybe even a kudos ;)

You had always been allowed very little freedom in this world. It seemed as if you were nothing but a rag doll for people to wrangle and use to their liking and then leave you, tattered and bare, for the next person who deemed you useful until they did the same, and the cycle would go on. 

When you weren't being used you were always confined by something. For most of your life, it had been the care of your religiously confused aunt, who believed that discipline and brutality would keep you grounded and worthy of the Lord's affections --whether it was a Catholic lord, Lutheran, Baptist, or any other she was devout to at the time, the slightest disobediance to his word would get a belt on your back.  It didn't help that you were a natural wanderer, and a particularly stubborn one. 

Your last day at Briarcliff Manor began with a faint beam of light casting out the darkness in your cell that swallowed you each night. The padded door of your cell unlatched and opened, revealing Frank, the head guard. He lifted you to your feet, hauling your shuddering form out of the patient's quarters, through the cackling and caterwauling of the other patients. It was earlier than the usual time the patients are awoken, you realized, as no one else was let out of their room. 

You remembered hearing him say something about Sister Jude's office and you searched your memory for the crime so horrible the sister insisted on punishing you for so early in the morning. Your stomach tightened in dread the farther Frank dragged you up Jude's "stairway to heaven", readying yourself for the all too familiar sting of a leather cane biting your ass.

The previous night had been your fourth electroshock therapy session that left you a drooling puddle of convulsions and shudders. Your limbs had turned to noodles, your brain to mush. You spent half of the night crouched on your stale mattress, writhing on pulsing muscles that spasmed with each pump of fresh electricity running through your veins. 

Your horrendous and hell sent -- as the Monsignor liked to call it-- ability to play with fire, caused you to be the feistiest and most feared of all the patients. Everyone in the institution looked at you as though you had horns; as though you were the devil himself. The rare and brief times when you were allowed out of your cell, the nuns would clutch their rosaries, averting their eyes from yours in fear of being caught in flames from a look.

You were the only patient without a mental illness, yet your so called treatment was no doubt the most brutal. In just a month, you had been subject to all types of torture good old Briarcliff had to offer -- from being the literal tail end of Sister Jude's beloved canes, to occasional electro shock, on top of the excorsism you were greeted with the day of your arrival at Briarcliff. It was easy to assume that your aunt had left you at some medieval prison. The only friends you had made in the month you had been here were the rats who claimed most of the cell for their own --and, when you weren't quick enough, your meals, that were sloppily served and slid in under your door twice a day.

The click of the door opening to the sister's office came with the same jolt of terror it always had, but this time it multiplied. You thought of the sharp glare in Sister Jude's eyes that could do almost as much damage as her canes and you panicked. You weren't sure how much more your body could take. To your suprise, though, when you entered the dull room of browns and greys, Sister Jude was seated at her desk with folded hands, watching Frank drag you over to a chair facing her desk, sitting you down. 

There was a moment of silence, and Sister Jude smirked at your puzzled, hazy eyes that searched for a cane. Then she spoke.

"Not quite the picture you're used to seeing, is it?" She laughed in her throat. Her eyes were cruel, but weren't pointed at you with their usual daggers. "I understand you'd probably like more rest given your treatment not many hours ago." You winced, inwardly, at how she said 'treatment'. Her tone was almost teasing, as if your suffering had taken place solely for her entertainment.

" Why am I here, Sister?" You slurred the best you could. It was the first time you had tried to speak since your electroshock. You glared at her, trying to match her eyes with enough conviction.

Her demeanor had changed completely and she bowed her head momentarily, as though she was about to say something damaging. She stood up slowly, rounding her desk to lean back on it on front of you. 

"Have you ever met anyone else with your ability?" Her lower tone hinted she was getting to the point of your visit. 

Your eyes shifted from her face to the whispers of dawn creeping through the windows. You remained silent, unsure how to respond. You never thought of the possibility of not being the only despised pyromaniac in the world. 

You shifted as best you could in your straitjacket, having little balance with your arms restricted. Being forced to wear this everyday reminded you of the much smaller one your aunt had purchased when you were no more then five, when the curtains caught in flames after you yanked them down in anger. From then on whatever unpleasant mood you were in set fire to anything you touched. Your aunt had made sure you learned the hard way that an insatiable hellion would not be tolerated in a house of Christ. 

"I have." She continued, "There have been many like you." She looked past you, as if reliving a memory. "You're quite the talk of the country. Footage of the Monsignor's leg caught in flames during your excorcism has made the news, as you probably know." She sat up straighter, clasping her hands in her lap. She began to sound like a lawyer, making a verdict against a criminal and you felt a pang of unease, "Naturally, when things get out like this, all sorts of people are bound to see, as it is no longer the secret your aunt had hoped to keep hidden. Which brings me to why I sent for you so early." She rounded back to her desk, again, and looked you straight in the eye. 

"There is an academy in Louisiana that houses young girls with similar.." she paused, licking her lips, "defects, like yourself. I understand it has been progressive since the colonies. It educates young women on their abnormalities, coaching them on self control in which they learn to function properly in society." 

You stared at her blankly, your fingers fiddling with the inside fabric of your straitjacket. Your mind took each word at a time, tracing a path to where this was going. 

"The administrators of this school," Sister Jude continued, "were of the many who saw the broadcast." 

Her wrinkled fingers unfolded a peace of paper that was tucked into a folder at the side of the desk, before retaking her seat. You could barely see through the thin paper, words from top to bottom, ending with a dark signiture at the bottom in exaggerated cursive. Jude scanned over, what you assumed was, the letter, setting it in front of her. Your eyes focused on the signature: "M. Snow".

" Your admittance here has only caused commotion and damage. Accusations and threats have been made against Briarcliff since the incident, and, frankly, I'm not sure if you will hold out much longer if the Monsignor continues to look for a cure for something I'm not sure is curable." Despite her usual cold stare, you thought for a moment that you saw bits of sympathy in the Sister's eyes when she looked at you. The mixed emotion and troubles in her eyes made her seem, daresay, human. Your aggravation molded into confusion at her next words. 

"The head of the council of the Acamemy has agreed to travel to Massachusetts. She is waiting outside as we speak, with a car that will take you to the airport where you are to set off for New Orleans at 5:00." 

All the words seemed to have filtered out of you brain at that moment, but she wasn't done, "I assume you understand what is taking place, so if there is no confusion, Frank here, will escort you out in no more than five minutes. You'll know well what I mean when I say there better not be any funny buisness once you're out there."

You turned back behind you to Frank, then to Jude, then back to the window that shone with more morning light. It slowly became clear what danger she as head of Briarcliff was getting herself into, sending you to a place that claimed to encourage your 'defect'.

"Does... doesn't this go against everything you stand for Sister?" You asked shakily.

"Despite the Monsignor's efforts to make this a holy institution, there is nothing godly about this place. There was evil within these walls long before you arrived." You remained tense, still in a well of confusion. At your silence, she sighed, continuing, "You don't belong here, (Y/N). I know that much. Where you're going, I feel, will do more good for both you and Briarcliff." 

You couldn't tell if she was speaking from her mind or the letter. It still wasn't clear. What was her motive? Did the Monsignor know or agree to this? You couldn't pinpoint whether this was out of subtle generosity or fear. You quickly lost any care of all possible reasons as you began to grasp what was about to happen: you were getting out of here. 

"Sister --" 

"Are we going through with this, or are you going continue your stay here?" Jude snapped, visably irritated, "There is no more time to waste."

Sister Jude did not lag. Within minutes, Frank had released you from your straitjacket, making you feel like a baby learning for the first time how to use it's arms, Sister Jude had thrown onto you a dark green, slightly dusty jacket, and you were out the door, your lungs taking in the familiar fresh air they had been deprived of for weeks. You then looked ahead of you, taking in the sight of a tall, bright colored cloaked woman with orange sprouting from her head -- a major contrast from the dark, lifeless colors that filled Briarcliff. She came closer into view as Frank pulled you closer towards the car that seemed to just be a gateway from one asylum to another.


	2. Chapter 2

Heavy silence continued through the car ride and on to the plane, where you were frequently distracted by the graceful, yet peculiar movements and utterances of the orange-haired woman, who convinced you by her violet cloak, long tartan skirt and blood red gloves, had escaped from either a comic strip or Picasso painting. Three albino men in black sat solemnly behind the both of you, making the plane, along with the silence, feel more congested than it was.

"So..." you cleared your throat awkwardly, "I... take it you're not a nun?"

"I could never devote myself to anything enough to dress in those atrocious black rags morning to night, I'd make my vows to the devil first." The woman tossed her head back dramatically, apparently only phased by the image of herself in a nun's habbit than your poor choice of conversation starter. "On the contrary my dear, where you're going you will find to be less of a nunnery than anywhere you've ever been."

" So, you're Ms. Snow then? The one who's gonna coach me on my defect, or whatever the hell people consider it now?"

"Just Myrtle, dear, please." She looked out the window as she spoke, leaving you without an answer. She huffed to herself after a moment, "So bland and austere, the catholics. Their grammar is just as undecorated as their wardrobe." She let out a short laugh, "Defect. Gracious, you would've thought she was shipping you off to some physics lab. No darling, you're not a malfunction of nature nor are you a demon; you are a witch."

That one was suprisingly new, you thought. You had been treated as a malfunction of nature your entire life, and called Demon possibly more than your own name, but never had you heard the word "witch" --which was strange, given your aunt's always superstitious nature. It then hit you that no one had mentioned her hand in this, if she had any at all. You couldn't imagine her approving you basically being smuggled from one end of the country to another. Unless it was her initiative of course.

"You don't seem very stunned," Myrtle continued at your neutral expression. "It usually takes a while for it to register in young girls' minds that they're not exactly regular. Though, I suppose, it already has for you, given the situation you just left," She eyed your thin form and raggedy clothes through her cat-eye glasses, "Or, dare I say, escaped. "

"Well, I guess you could call it that," You muttered. "I've been through hell and back. At this point, I'm not sure anything can suprise me anymore."

"Well, be prepared for a change of mind," She said, matter-of-factly. "We've certainly endured more than both the demons and the mental patients."

The remainder of the flight was silent, and three hours began to feel like three eternities. Hunger started rumbling in your stomach and the odor of your cell that still clung to you assulted your nose, and you prayed that this supposed witch house atleast had decent plumbing and food that tasted of anything but soggy cardboard.

Two wrought iron gates opened to a narrow pathway that lead you to a large, white, colonial mansion. As big as it was, you expected when you reached the steps to hear faint noises and voices of flourishing students from the inside, like you would at a regular school, but the shiver that slithered up your spine as you got to the door told you this may be just the opposite.

The door opened slowly, eerily, showing no one behind it. You walked in hesitantly, finding yourself completely alone and engulfed in an expanse of more white. Light from the windows created a path on the wooden floor that your feet followed.

You wandered into into a vast living area with polished, victorian furniture and white walls littered with numerous paintings of elegant women who's eyes seemed to scrutinize your every move. They watched you walk past the marble fireplace, grazing your fingers along the top as you looked at your madded hair through the mirror above it, and followed you over to the black, grand piano in the corner.

You pushed down a key, then another, liking the boom-like sound it made into the lifeless room. You kept at this for a moment, enjoying your solitude and the sound of the opposing keys, until a familiar song came to memory, and soon your fingers were dancing effortlessly along them. Confident that there was no one other than the painted women around you, you began to play harder, louder, and a long missed rush of contentment filled your chest the more freely you played.

The forgotten sound of a piano was calming and a pleasant distinction from the cries of patients, cracks of riding crops, overbearing plane silence, and mutterings of strange witch women-- not to mention the all but overplayed record of _Dominique_ that had been your only source of music for weeks. This was probably the only thing someone could do with complete abandon and not be worried about being chastized or feared.

The natural flow you'd found, soon after you'd found it, was disrupted by a lighter, but more prominent sound.

"Schubert,"

The song instantly died and you jolted from the stool. The disruption was gazing calmly at you, slightly leaning on the door frame across the room: a tall, well dressed blonde with dark eyes and full lips that spread into a gracious smile.

"That's a hard piece to play. You must be (Y/N)."

You stood frozen, but nodded after a moment. She walked toward you.

"I'm Cordelia, headmistress at Miss Robichaux's."

The blonde's presence was eminent and not at all threatening, but it was intimidating, and you felt yourself become more flustered the closer she got. She offered her hand and you took it, timidly.

"I, uh...I was just walking around and, um, I didn't think anyone was here,"

"No, it's perfectly alright. It needs a lighter mood around here, it can get too dull sometimes. You play beautifully." She smiled.

You attempted a smile back, but averted your gaze from her warm eyes, now begining to feel the realization of just being caught practically pounding on a stranger's piano creep up your cheeks.

"Come," Taking a step back toward the doorway, Cordelia motioned her hand for you to follow. "I'll show you to your room. The other girls are out on a field trip, I figured you needed some peace while you adjusted and got settled. I know you've had quite the experience."

The bathroom connected to your room was more exquisite than any hotel bathroom you'd seen, with a chandelier and a fireplace almost as big as the one downstairs.

You stripped yourself of the rags you'd once been forced to call clothes and turned on the shower so that the water was nearly scalding. Normally you wouldn't have the water this hot, but you needed to burn. You threaded through the mads and tangles in your hair and scrubbed your skin almost frantically, content to pull out patches of your own hair and rub yourself raw until it sent all evidence of Briarcliff down the drain, away, and off of your body for good. You tilted your head and rolled your neck over your shoulders, focusing on nothing but the steam, the water on your face and a long lost memory it invoked.

_Your boots dug into the dirt beneath you as you crouched beside the river. Your eyes were closed, head thrown back. The mossy breeze brushed your face. It was the only stop of your half an hour journey on the back of Jimmy's bike back to Jupiter and Elsa's incessant hounding. You stubbed out the remains of your cigarette into the dirt and slipped off Jimmy's leather jacket, welcoming the goosebumps that rose on your arms from the breeze._

_"Come on, Inferno!"_

_Jimmy was in the middle of the river, boots and all, splashing around like a wild dog._

_"You've rested enough, don't be so stiff!"_

_Water splashed onto your face, followed by a laugh, and you winced._

_"I'm not stiff, I'm tired."_

_You watched him run further into the river as he laughed. He pulled off his now drenched shirt that clung to his body as it slipped up his torso and off his toned arms. He threw it at you and winked._

_You caught it, rolling your eyes, and tossed it behind you before ditching your own shirt and slipping off your shoes._

_He cupped his hands, still in gloves, into the water and spashed his face, then nodded towards your hips, "Still got the stash?"_

_You pulled out of your pocket a small bag full of white powder and held it up to him with a smirk before slipping it safely in the inside pocket of his jacket before peeling off your jeans. Stepping in, the ice cold of the river shot up your legs, and you treaded over to him across the sharp rocks that dug into your feet._

_"Wouldn't wanna lose the fairy dust, now would we?" His nearly black eyes traveled your body, sizing you up in that way of his that both annoyed you and made your kness weak._

_Droplets from his hair fell onto his nose, onto his lips that his tongue licked over, and onto his chest, traveling down the center of his stomach and down the front of his pants. Silencing him altogether suddenly seemed more interesting than answering, so instead, you pulled him to you and smashed your lips together._

_You both spent God knows how long in the water, your mouth fused with his, tasting the river on his tongue. Your hands explored his back, teasing with your nails, and you enjoyed the soft growls in his throat. His cold, strong arms encircled you waist and lifted you up so your toes rested on his boots._

_You both broke with a hot sigh. He laughed and playfully poked your nose with the tip of his tongue. You lifted your head and lightly took it between your teeth, while you reached behind you and yanked off his gloves, throwing them towards the rest of your clothes. His loving gaze never left your face._

_"You and me, Inferno."_

_You twirled your fingers through his unruly curls. "I hate when you call me that."_

_"No, you don't. Besides, we all need a great nickname."_

_"Speak for yourself, Lobster Boy." You sassed and grinned against his mouth._

_With a raise of his eyebrows, you were up in the air and over his shoulder. He hollered, spinning you around, kicking and splashing through the water._

_"Jimmy!"_

_He walked you over and set you down on a rock near your pile of clothes and got on it to kneel over you, laughing like a little boy who just chopped off his sister's braids._

_You hooked your fingers on his belt loops and pulled him down with you, locking your legs behind his knees. But before you could shift on top of him, your arms were pinned against the rock. You grunted, shifting barely enough to do any justice. You thought of putting up more of a fight and kicking him off, but honestly, it'd be tragic to lose or forget this feel of his slippery chest moving against your topless body, or his lips working magic on your ears and neck, or him settling down fully onto you, and feeling him rubbing against your bare thigh._

_"God, I hate you."_

_You whined through a sigh as he nibbled a path down your throat, and his hands decended..._

As your hands roamed down your stomach and across your pelvis, you looked down your body at your clean skin that was now painted with red marks from the hot water.

When you looked up, you spotted two small dots appear behind the white shower curtain. They slowly grew larger, and larger, until they formed big, dark blobs that soon engulfed the curtain. The water turned ice cold, causing you to yelp, but they stood stil, until the curtain was pierced by two sharp blades that began to puncture it, repeatedly.

You screamed, slipping and falling to your knees. One of the knives tore a long slit in the curtain, revealing two figures in long capes with white masks, and you screamed louder in horror, scrambling to the corner of the tub.

"Jesus stop screaming, you're not dead." One of the masks lifted, revealing a younge blonde.

"What- who the hell are you?!" you yelled, reaching haphazardly for your towell and covering yourself.

"Calm down girl, we always do this to the newbies. It's tradition." The other one slipped off her mask, "I'm Queenie."

"(Name)." You replied. Once you steadied your breathing, you then asked, "So, chopping up newcomers is your tradition?"

"Don't be dramatic princess, we're just welcoming you. C told us to keep it light anyway." The blonde said, nonchalantly as she took off her cape. "Besides, considering you're pretty much the outcome if Carrie and The exorcist had a baby, we figured one horror clìche needed another."

"Funny how you're the one calling her a clìche." Queenie shot back, provoking a glare from the blonde, who flashed you with the fakest of smiles.

"I'm Madison. Madison Montgomery."

You nodded and wiped you face, still clutching your towell.

For a few long seconds, you all stayed still until Madison huffed, "Well, this is officially awkward. I guess we'll see you at dinner with the rest of us. The clothes on your bed are from all of us, but mostly from me. I recommend you don't wear the ones from Nan, hers are the ones that look like maternity outfits." At that, Queenie scoffed and rolled her eyes. Madison turned, swinging her cape over her shoulder, "Welcome to the sorority!" She concluded with mock enthusiasm, and with that, you were left alone.


End file.
